How to Make Ice Cream Without Ice
by Sophia Villo
Summary: Summertime, and all thoughts turn to dreams of cool treats and the homes where they were made. How does a prisoner in the middle of a foreign country make and freeze ice cream? Two for one: Entry for the SSSWC and answer to challenge #47 by sarajm: The Recipe Challenge.


Colonel Wilhelm Klink stared down his prisoners with what he described as his 'commanding expression'. This July the third and the following holiday his charges would behave, unlike the incidents of last year. The men in front of him shuffled idly, wishing Klink would hurry up. The lack of straight lines irked Klink, and he raised the authority in his voice appropriately. "While the Geneva convention allows prisoners to celebrate national holidays, any and all excessive displays of festivities will be crushed!"

"And the Red Cross sent us such great fireworks," Kinch quipped.

"Hey, I'll bet London would send over a bombing raid if we asked 'em! Boy, that'd be a show!" Shouts of approval followed Carter's idea.

The idea did not amuse Klink in the least. "Enough! I'm warning you, don't try _anything_. This is the…"

"…toughest POW camp in all of Germany."

The tired old phrase echoed back to Klink as everyone to a man chanted the Stalag 13 motto along with him.

"Colonel Hogan, control your men!" Klink said.

"You've obviously taught them well, Kommandant," Hogan said, "I can't help it if they learn their lessons that well."

Klink threw an irritable fist at the general group, harrumphing as he stalked back to his office. The men took that as a dismissal.

No one moved very quickly, as the temperature already sucked the urgency out of any mundane tasks like laundry.

Kinch moved as far as the shade of the wall, and no further. "It's gonna be a cooker today," he commented after a few moments of shuffling for position out of the sun.

"Yep," Hogan stretched up against the wall and adjusted his cap. "

Carter crowded into the small corner of shade kindly left by the others. "It's the kind of day for ice cream," he said. "Boy, my pop makes the best ice cream. Every Fourth of July, we'd get out the ice and the salt and us kids would take turns churning it…."

Colonel Hogan thought about stopping Chatterbox Carter from going on and on, but found himself remembering sitting on the back porch with the ice cream bucket freezing his knees, waiting for the moment when he couldn't turn the handle anymore and everyone would dig in. He smiled. That must have been twenty five years ago. He remembered it like it might have happened yesterday, yet it felt like someone else's life.

"I'll bet my mother could give your pop a run for his money," Hogan said when Carter paused to breath. "Sunday afternoons in summer, a bowl of cherry ice cream…" He stopped himself before he slipped into permanent reverie. That kind of thinking could do an number to morale. "London's dropping some supplies tonight; we'll send someone out the emergency exit to location M16 after bed check."

Changing the subject so abruptly didn't fool Kinch. He saw Hogan's look, knew that he thought of home and family.

"What's in this shipment," Lebeau asked. "I hope they sent the truffles I've been asking for."

"Don't count on it," Hogan said. London had laughed in his face about that request.

The conversation halted as Schultz ambled up to the group. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said, not caring if he actually did interrupt. "Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant would like to see you in his office."

Lifting his head so he could see Schultz from under the hat brim, Hogan scowled at the guard. "Aw c'mon Shultz, I already got my share of 'Iron Colonel' speeches today," he said, and settled back against the wall, head down again.

Schultz chuckled darkly. "Do you think he can't keep going?"

"I was hoping he wouldn't." Hogan sighed. Using his shoulders, he pushed himself off the wall, resigned to appeasing Klink only because he had no other assignments.

Lost in their own thoughts, the remaining four men watched Hogan disappear into the kommandanture.

"I could go for a bowl of ice cream myself," Kinch said, breaking the lull in the conversation.

"What is it with Americans and ice cream?" Newkirk asked.

Kinch looked sideways at him. "You can't tell me you don't like it."

"Of course I ruddy well like it." What kind of a loony would he be if he didn't? "I'm just sayin', American's didn't invent the stuff, but it's like it's your national desert."

"But ice cream is so all-American," Carter protested. You can't have summer holidays without it!"

"You think you're the only country that freezes dairy and sugar together to make a dessert? Besides, the French make crème glacee plus meilleur." *

"That's cause you haven't tried Pop's," Carter replied. He didn't know exactly what Lebeau's French meant, but from the context he had a good guess.

Lebeau had his proud French chef glint aimed at Carter. "I will make you the best ice cream you have ever had!" he declared.

"And how are we going to freeze it?" Newkirk asked. "Ice doesn't exactly grow on trees in the middle of summer."

Carter thought for a moment. "I can make an endothermic reaction with the chemicals I have in the tunnels," he declared.

"The chemicals you use to make things explode?" Carter's collection of chemicals didn't exactly meet food-grade standards, and Newkirk wondered how badly Carter could poison someone with them.

"Yeah, but see this reaction actually absorbs energy in the form of heat from the surrounding matter, and…"

"Carter!" Newkirk stopped him before he gave a thorough science lesson.

Something about Carter's boyish eagerness infected Kinch. All the stunts they'd pulled over the last several months, how hard could it be to make a simple desert? "He does actually have an idea," he said, while already planning details of how the rest of the ingredients could be obtained.

Lebeau looked at him like he'd grown another head.

Kinch clarified. "Why not make ice cream?"

"You think we can make that here?" Newkirk asked.

"We make wine," Carter pointed out.

Newkirk conceded. "Good point."

"Lebeau, you have that secret stash of sugar, right?" The scowl at having to admit to it told Kinch all he needed. "And you have a recipe?"

"Bien sur, I know the recipe. All it takes is dairy, sugar, eggs, vanilla…" Lebeau recited from memory.

"Make it cherry," interrupted Carter.

"We have that supply drop tonight," Kinch said slowly, picturing the area in his mind. "There's that farm nearby where we've gotten some help from before. Whoever goes out tonight stops by the farm to get what we need."

"I'll do it!" Carter eagerly obliged.

"You just want an excuse to see that girl Birgitt at the farm." Newkirk smirked.

"Well, I have to get milk for the ice cream, and the farm isn't far from the drop point, so it makes sense to get the milk there, and she just happens to live there."

"Sure," Lebeau rolled his eyes. Every time Carter talked about Birgitt, stars reflected in his eyes. Carter, of course, had no idea that he was being completely transparent.

Nodding, Kinch agreed with Carter. "You'd better go, Carter. She knows you and it's best if she can't recognize all of us."

Carter lit up like a firework. "And y'know what, they have a cherry tree, too!"

"Alright, I get it, I'll make it cherry," Lebeau rolled his eyes.

Kinch wrapped up the few remaining details. "The woodshop can put together a freezer. Carter, you're sure this experiment will work?"

"Yeah, I accidentally froze my sleeve when I was trying to mix an explosive. It oughta freeze ice cream."

"Or you'll be known as the man who invented exploding ice cream," said Lebeau, hoping that what he said was a joke and not an actual possibility. With Carter and his lab, one never knew.

"That takes care of everything but the vanilla," said Kinch.

"I pick some up every time I'm in town," Lebeau said with a dismissal wave. "I use it in my apple strudel."

Kinch caught sight of Hogan returning from his visit with Klink. Nodding his head, he warned the others to wrap up the scheming quickly.

"Take care of the freezer," Lebeau looked to Newkirk, who nodded shortly.

"So what did the "Bald Eagle" want this time?" Kinch asked as Hogan rejoined the party.

Hogan took up his previous post against the wall. "Oh, the usual. No shenanigans, no excitement, no fun, etcetera and etcetera." A light smile crossed his face. "It makes me feel a little guilty that we don't have anything planned."

"We'll think of something," Kinch said, knowing exactly what something they'd think up.

* * *

"An ice cream maker," Newkirk repeated. Corporal Foster of the woodshop club continued to stare at him like the request made no sense. Which of course it didn't. Ice cream wasn't at thing one did while in prison in the middle of a war.

You know, a wooden bucket with a at metal can inside with a crank and a beater?" Newkirk pantomimed the action of churning to reinforce the idea.

"Well, ok," Foster shrugged. The woodshop workers were no strangers to odd requests, but this really beat all. "When do you need it by?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" That barracks two gang sure knew how to complicate things. "I'll get some men on it right away. But only if we can use it when you're done," said Foster.

"I don't care what you do with it, as long as it's ready by tomorrow!" Newkirk left, wondering what was so unbelievable about an ice cream churn.

* * *

A waning moon cast its pale light on the farm deep in the woods. Carter loved this farm, not just because a certain frauline lived in the upper bedroom, but somehow it reminded him of Gran and Pop's farm.

He edged around the house quietly, just hidden by shadows and shrubs, until he came to the back gable window. No light radiated from the room.

Carter bent down and fumbled in the soil until his fingers caught a small rock, which he threw up to the window. A "tink" broke the stillness of the night.

Carter ducked behind the bushes, making a terrible rustling. He hadn't thought such a little stone could make such a racket. Everybody in the house must have heard that and would be coming out to investigate the source. The stillness rolled back around the clearing until Carter decided he was safe. He picked another stone and threw it. This one also hit the window, making its sharp sound and falling back to land among the rosebushes.

Again, only silence greeted him. He began fiddling with the foliage, switching his weight side to side and back to front. Picking up a handful, he began throwing them in succession. He almost didn't notice when the window opened and a head full of bed-tossed curls appeared.

Caught off guard, he arrested his throw on the back swing, throwing his balance backward.

Birgitt peered into the darkness in the direction of the snapping foliage. The black costume and oily smudges couldn't hide her liebchen for long.

"Andrew," Birgitt called in quite a louder voice than she intended. Clapping a hand to her mouth she looked left, right, and behind, afraid who else heard her.

Materializing from the undergrowth, Carter motioned eagerly for her to come down. "I need to borrow some milk," he said as quietly as he could and still be heard from two stories up.

Birgitt held motionless a moment more, just to be sure. When nothing but the noises of the night met her ears, she swung herself out the window, onto the lower roof, and down into Carter.

They collapsed together on the ground, making another commotion. "Come on." Half laughing, half gasping for air, Carter dragged Birgitt away from the house towards the barn. Reaching the safety of the barn, Birgitt flung her arms around Carter, pulling him down to her considerably shorter level.

"Gee, it's great to see you too Brigitte," he choked around her tight grasp.

"BEER-git," she corrected. "It has been too long. I thought you would never come back." She finally released him, holding onto his arms so she could look at him.

"We've been real busy lately. The factory at Stuttheim, the north road bridge, the…" Carter stopped mid-sentence, not so much because he ran out of words to say, but because Birgitt placed her finger over his lips to shush him.

"You should not speak so loud. My parents will hear you," she said.

Why would Birgitt be afraid that her parents would overhear? "I guess they wouldn't like it if they found out you were sneaking out of your room at night to meet a boy." He could understand that. A respectable girl meeting a boy after dark in a barn was bound to look bad, no matter the actual intent.

Birgitt said nothing, but opened a stall where a soft and spotted cow munched on pieces of hay. The three-legged milking stool scraped a path through the straw on the wooden floor. She sat down next to the cow. Hands practiced at milking began the familiar rhythm of filling the pail.

Carter hung over the side of the stall, arms crossed and hands underneath his chin, wondering if he should continue the conversation or if maybe he'd said something wrong and she didn't want to answer him.

Birgitt answered hesitantly, not sure which English words best explained what she was trying to say. "They are not loyal to Hitler, but they will not like me seeing you. They do not want to get involved," she said

Carter scratched his nose. "Why not? If they don't like the Nazis, why don't they want to help us win the war?"

"They think that if they pretend like the war does not exist, it will not come to us. They are afraid of the Nazis if they found out we are not loyal. They do not often go to town anymore." The poor cow lowed and tried to shift away from the stool and Birgitt's aggressive squeeze of anger. A hoof moved dangerously close to the bucket, but a light movement saved it.

Carter could watch her milk a cow all day. Sensing the stare, Birgitt turned around and caught him completely lost in looking, a wide grin on his face. She laughed and changed the subject to something much more enjoyable. "Why is it you need milk?"

Carter snapped out of his daze. "Oh, well you know, tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and in America we celebrate with picnics and ice cream and games…"

"Why do you celebrate July the fourth?"

"That's America's independence day," Carter looked honestly shocked that she didn't know this. "Anyway, we were talking this morning about ice cream, and the Colonel, he mentioned cherry ice cream, and we got the idea to make some as a surprise. Lebeau knows the ice cream recipe 'cause Pop never taught me his." Silence enveloped the barn again as Carter wondered why he had never asked his grandfather about how to make his ice cream.

"You miss your family." She stated, reading his mind.

"Yeah, sometimes," he admitted. "Being so far away from home, you miss stuff you never think about."

"Like ice cream?" Birgitt asked. Now she knew why milk was worth a midnight trip to her farm. The simple joy made her wonder, as she often did, about Andrew's strange life. "Tell me," she turned around, her gaze searching his face for answers, "you can leave the Stalag, but you always go back."

Carter shrugged. "That's where we're assigned."

"I do not understand," Birgitt turned away with a sad look. "You could be free, you could go home. You," here she paused and looked hard at Andrew, " _we_ could go to America together. Why do you stay? Surely you wish to be free?"

"Well, yeah. But if Hitler wins then there won't be much home to go home to."

Birgitt looked around the barn. The war had not found this small corner of Germany yet, but she knew it would, no matter what her parents did or didn't do.

"The war can't last forever," he said hopefully.

Birgitt looked back at him and her smile sent fireworks into his heart. "Yes," she said, patting the cow's flank gently, "only until the cows come home."

Carter gave her an unbelievably confused look.

"It is an American saying, yes? The cows come to the barn in the evening. Something that lasts until the cows come home lasts only a day, a very short time."

"Gosh, that's not what it means at all!" How and where Birgitt heard the phrase Carter had no idea, unless he'd used it while talking to her. Somehow the meaning got lost in translation. "It means something that won't happen for a long time, maybe not ever."

"Oh, well then I hope that the war does not last until the cows come home."

With Birgitt's help, Carter filled his canteen with as much of the fresh milk as would fit and capped it off.

"I'd better get going," he said reluctantly. He didn't want to leave the barn and the company he so enjoyed.

"I wish you did not have to go," Birgitt slid her hand onto the one Carter held the canteen in and held it tightly, as if she could hold him there in that barn.

"The krauts'll think I tried to escape," Carter said, then realized that Birgitt was very German and he probably just insulted her. "Not that I think you're a kraut – I mean, you're German, but you're a nice girl, not that everyone in Germany's not nice I just meant…"

Birgitt laid a hand on his arm. "I am not one of them," she reminded him. Not one of the enemy.

A howling wind interrupted the moment, making the old barn creak. "You are right," Birgitt moved swiftly towards the door, pulling Carter behind her. "You must go before the weather turns."

A gust slammed the doors open as soon Birgitt released the latch. The force pushed Birgitt backwards into Carter's arms.

"Woah there!" Carter set her back on her feet but kept his arm around her to keep her from blowing away. He hesitated a moment before asking, "can I walk you to your house?"

"Of course!" Birgitt shouted. The wind blew her words far past the house before they could reach the house and any watchful ears.

They forced their way to the front door against a strong headwind. Every two steps felt like five for all the effort it took to move. The front door was almost within reach when Carter exclaimed, "wait! Cherries! I need cherries!"

"What?"

"We've gotta have cherries for the ice cream!"

They made their way back to the side of the barn where the gnarled old tree hung low with fruit. Carter quickly pulled off a handful of dark red cherries, then realized he had no place to put them. He stood under the tree with juice dripping through his fingers and wondering how this was going to work out.

Birgitt pulled his black cap off and held it out to him. The hat pulled blond hair up in messy spikes. He dumped his handful into the temporary bag and reached for another. He had no idea how many he would have to pick to make a decent batch, so he filled the whole hat. By the time he finished, the fibers of the yarn stuck to his fingers. He'd have to wear the cap with its sticky layer for the rest of the war.

"I will see you soon?" Birgitt asked.

"Sure, I hope so," Carter answered back earnestly.

With a sneaky smile, Birgitt leaned in to kiss him. When he held her back, she thought maybe she'd been too forward, but then she heard what he heard; the crash of heavy boots nearing the house.

She pushed him to the ground. "Hide here. I will get rid of them for you. I will tell them I went to check on the animals because of the wind," she said as she backed away. "Come back soon!" and she disappeared.

The bramble of bushes he landed in pricked him. He tried to shift to find a less pokey spot that didn't exist. The patrol met Birgitt at her front door, looking for all the world like she had just checked on the animals and hadn't been clandestinely meeting an American. Whatever she said appeased the soldiers, who made one round of the house and continued on in the same direction. Carter saw her look in his direction and he waved his hand above the brush. She waved back before going into the house.

Boy, was it getting hard to go anywhere outside the camp. Ok, so technically he was in a prison camp, and he shouldn't be getting out at all, let alone going out and coming back. Who in their right mind would voluntarily go back to prison?

Birgitt asked him the same question. The escape tunnel lay safely beneath the camp, ready to open up into the wide world. If he wanted, he could grab a set of civilian clothing and go live in town indefinitely and no one would know he wasn't a native German-speaking bachelor. He could see Birgitt any time he chose. He could go home.

Home. They'd be all excited about the festivities tomorrow, he reckoned. Lighting fireworks, making Pop's ice cream. Carter wondered if his family saved enough of their sugar rations to keep the tradition going this year, and if they wondered how he was celebrating, or if he was celebrating at all. Would they celebrate the same way this year without him? Home suddenly seemed much further away than it ever had been before. How many cows would come home before he saw his?

Colonel Hogan said his mom's ice cream was the best. Carter seriously doubted that. He'd change his mind once he tasted Pop's recipe.

Maybe it wasn't the ice cream the colonel missed. That their unflappable leader missed home seemed almost sacrilegious. Being homesick was for regular enlisted men, not that anyone would admit it freely. Carter imagined all of them missing their homes, families…foods. What he wouldn't do for a piece of Mom's apple pie.

Well, there were a few things he wouldn't do, like turn traitor or go AWOL, not while he had his teammates and could helped the war effort. This job was more than an assignment, it was his choice to stay. It was all their choices. They were free to leave…and free to come back to fight again. "I guess some things are more important that being able to leave whenever you can." The darkness of the storm lessened, moonlight seeping through the thinning clouds. He grabbed the canteen of milk, the hat full of cherries, and the package from London. Bidding a hasty farewell to the upstairs bedroom he made a break for the safety of camp.

* * *

"It's about bloody time you got back," Newkirk greeted Carter as he scurried down the ladder from the emergency tree stump entrance. "What took you so long?"

Lebeau grabbed for the canteen and the cap that Carter held out to him. "That's a stupid question. You know he's got a crush on that little farm girl."

"You guys have all been late because of girls before. At least this one's on our side," Carter said pointedly.

Handing Carter a wet rag and his usual clothes, Kinch said, "hurry and get cleaned up. The colonel's been expecting you for an hour."

"We stalled for as long as we could, but we only have a few more minutes before he comes looking." Lebeau said, pushing a still dirty Carter down the tunnel.

At the main room, Lebeau stowed the ingredients underneath a pile of half-sewn uniforms, ready for assembly. "We'll wait until the colonel's asleep, then we make the base," he said gleefully.

Hogan's greeting to Carter was much the same as Newkirk's. "It's about time," he said, pulling the sergeant out of the tunnel. "What'd you do, forget where we live?"

Kinch, Newkirk, and Lebeau all saw the explanation Carter wanted to give before a word left his mouth.

"You should'a seen that storm, Colonel. Right hurricane it was," Newkirk said.

"Patrols everywhere," Lebeau said.

"Uh-huh." Not one word convinced Hogan that something wasn't up. "Carter," he turned to the sergeant with a look that mismatched his casual conversational tone. "How's Birgitt?"

"Oh she's great, Colonel. Gee she's a great girl. It's not every day you find a girl that pretty, and boy, can she milk a cow!"

Kinch stepped on Carter's foot.

So Carter took his sweet time in getting back to base because of a girl. How many times had Hogan worried about his men only to find out they were out romancing the local ladies. On the other hand, Carter made it back in one piece with the package and without fouling anything up. Never look a gift horse in his mouth, Hogan's grandfather always told him.

* * *

"Lebeau," Carter whispered.

"What?" came the sleepy response.

"Are you awake?"

"Of course he's awake, or else 'e wouldn't be answerin' you," hissed Newkirk.

"Is it time yet?" Carter asked.

Kinch rolled over towards the rest of the room. "Carter, it's been ten minutes. Give the colonel a chance to get to sleep."

A bunk squeaked as Carter settled himself against the framework steps, determined not to fall asleep before the action began.

The wait stretched on and on, though in reality only another twenty minutes passed. Finally Carter heard stirring from Lebeau and Kinch's bunks, and the sound of the tunnel entrance sliding open.

"Eesh, has it always been this loud?" Kinch glanced nervously towards Hogan's door.

Lebeau darted down the ladder and returned moments later with his hands full of food. In addition to the raw milk and cherries, he retrieved a small bottle of vanilla extract and his precious sugar stash. "Here, get these cherries pitted and I'll get the base cooking," he spread the ingredients out on the table, arranging them in the proper usage order.

"Carter!" Lebeau snapped under his breath. "You forgot the eggs!"

If the light had been on, Carter's crestfallen face may have moved the chef to pity. "I'm sorry, Lebeau. The storm, and the cherries…"

"And the girl," Lebeau said. "Never mind. We will just have to make do without the eggs." He went on separating the cream from the milk by flashlight.

Pitting cherries isn't a particularly hard task, but time consuming and tricky without the right tools. Kinch finally found a little detail screwdriver that worked well, but Newkirk had to resort to his knife and Carter just used his fingers, resulting in a soggy, sticky mess. Much fingerlicking ensued while Lebeau measured and mixed in the fruit. The few pieces that didn't go into the base disappeared almost instantly, followed by more licking. Last to go in was a pinch of salt.

Using a clean piece of cloth, Lebeau covered the bowl "to let the flavors combine," he said. He cast one last proud look at his creation before sliding it out of sight underneath a back bunk and climbing into bed.

* * *

The mix sat untouched until the following afternoon. Following lunch, while most of the men enjoyed the after-storm freshness, Kinch went below to "monitor the radio", or so he told Hogan, and took Carter and the mixture with him.

The chemical mixture used in the freezer smelled like rotting eggs. Kinch silently prayed that it wouldn't end up tasting that way. They both took turns turning the dasher, and in a surprisingly short time, Carter declared it frozen.

Kinch lifted the canister lid, revealing beautifully pink creaminess. He couldn't resist dipping a finger into it and giving it a try.

It did not taste like sulfur. It tasted just like the ice cream from the neighborhood soda shop back in Detroit. Kinch gave Carter the thumbs up and the two of them hoisted the maker up the ladder and into the room.

Colonel Hogan, on hearing the trap door open, stepped out of his office. His eyes fell on the bucket that Kinch and Carter heaved onto the table. "What the…" he looked from one sergeant to the other, to the wooden bucket between them, then to the grinning pair of corporals on his left. "I should'a known," he said, shaking his head. They were really getting the hang of this subterfuge business. He didn't know why, but Hogan felt immensely proud of that his little gang had pulled one over on him.

"We made it 'specially for you, Colonel," Carter couldn't contain his excitement. Everyone crowded around the table to see what the bucket held. When Newkirk ceremoniously pulled the lid off, sighs of happiness rippled around the men.

Using one of Lebeau's large wooden spoons, Kinch dished the ice cream while hands reached in and grabbed each bowl as he finished.

Oh, how wonderful the ice cream felt going down, cooling the sweltering room and bringing with it delicious memories of summers past.

"I know July fourth is only Independence day in America," Hogan looked around at a collage of different uniforms, accents, cultures, "but we're all here fighting for freedom. For ourselves; for others."

"Vive la liberte." Lebeau raised his bowl in toast.

"Here, here," voices echoed back.

"Thanks fellas," Hogan told his men, his team, his friends. Home might be thousands of miles away, but right now it didn't seem that far.

* * *

*Pardon my still-improving French. To the best of my knowledge, this should roughly translate to, "The French make ice cream much better."

* * *

A/N: MS Word counts the words of the main story at 4,996 words. FF document manager calls it 5,103. As I trust Word more than the document manager and I can't find any more to trim down, I'm going with the 4,996.

* * *

Cherry Ice Cream:

16 oz. Sweet cherries, about three cups (original recipe says frozen, but either works)

1 Cup heavy cream

1 cup milk (I like whole milk, but feel free to substitute 2% or half and half. I don't recommend skim)

1/3 cup sugar

1/8 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

For ice cream maker: puree cherries with blender until mostly smooth but some chunks remain. Combine all ingredients, and either freeze immediately or let chill overnight for best results. Freeze in an ice cream maker and enjoy right away as soft serve, or freeze a couple of hours for that firmer consistency.

Without an ice cream maker: using frozen cherries, puree all ingredients in a blender until completely smooth. Serve right away or freeze in an airtight container.


End file.
